


Worth Every Penny

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Sometimes, you need a professional touch.





	Worth Every Penny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/gifts).



> Happy late birthday to Irrevocably_Sherlocked. I hope late is better than never.

_Best blow job_

_Worth every penny_

John could use the excuse that he was drunk when he made the call. He could say he was drunk and desperate and disheartened. He could say he felt out of place at the club: too old, too stiff, too out of practice.

These all sounded like very reasonable precursors to him dialing the number under the words scrawled on the stall. He could even say he came to his senses before any real damage was done, muttering.”What am I doing?” into the receiver, barely avoiding dropping his phone in the toilet just to destroy the evidence. A bad idea when the nurse’s line and half his patients needed it to get in touch with him.

Of course, that didn't explain why he was currently mounting the stairs to the giver of the supposed best blow job. That didn't explain why a voice from a number he didn't recognize rumbling, “I’ll tell you exactly what you're doing,” made him come to heel like a puppy.

It was his dick’s fault. That was all there was for it. His dick made him go to three ATMs to withdraw the requisite funds. His dick led him to the subway and walked him the three blocks to a worn-down door with a B scrawled in golden paint on the front. And it led him up the stairs to the rusted barn door that was apparently the entrance. And if it didn't think it would get hurt in the process, it would have certainly knocked on the door as well.

Instead, John used his knuckles, squaring his shoulders to whatever was coming his way.

The door squealed open to reveal a man in a pair of black boxer briefs and nothing else except a bit of paint on the backs of his hands. He held the door in one hand and leaned against the frame opposite, crossing his feet in front of him. Without a word, he flicked his gaze down to John's shoes and back up again. His lips pursed in thought.

“Very well.” He stood and walked away. “Close the door behind you.”

 _What the…_ “Do you mean to say come in?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Crossing the threshold felt like entering another world, like the noise of the city changed, like he was entering an alternate dimension where this was actually something he did.

He closed the exit.

The place looked to be a commercial space retrofitted to be lived in, threadbare rugs over concrete flooring, no built-in appliances, no bedroom door, just a half-open curtain hanging from a rope spanning from wall to wall.

There was a bank of windows on one side of the room, looking out onto the street. They all looked like they opened, but getting down would be a problem. The wall opposite John, behind the bed, was solid, no doubt shared with the building next door. And to the left was the kitchen, if it could be called that, without even a window for ventilation.

“There’s a fire escape through the bathroom. Do you want to take off your coat?”

John flinched. “What?”

The man nodded to John's torso. “Your coat. You must be warm.”

John pulled the coat from his shoulders. “Why did you mention the fire escape?”

The man circled behind John, catching his coat before John could remove it entirely. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John answered before his brain could catch up. “How did you--”

“You checked for exits the moment you walked in, which suggests a dangerous profession. Now, you could be police or fire.” The man’s fingers brushed along John's collar. “But this tan line. A scar, really. Permanent darkening of the skin indicates intense, prolonged sun exposure. Definitely didn't get that in New York. Military, then. Not American, so British. British army.”

John blinked. “How could you possibly know that?”

The man smirked. “I have paint thinner on my hands, so I’ll be in the look for a moment. Money can go in the dish on the coffee table. STI screenings are on the fridge.”

John went back to his coat and pulled out the envelope, giving the cash one last quick count. A thousand dollars. He was losing his mind. This was insane. Not to mention illegal.

The water turned on in the bathroom.

He could leave, no harm done. With the water running, maybe the man wouldn't even notice until John was already out of the building. He could leave a little something for taking the man’s time.

Yes, that was a good idea. Fifty, maybe a hundred, bucks to show no hard feelings, and John could pretend this never happened.

But, when he got to the coffee table, he paused. How many failed relationships with bitter endings? How many flops on dating apps? How many times did he feel like a dirty old man looking for a one-off at a bar? Once, just once, he could have no-strings-attached sex with a gorgeous man for an exorbitant amount of money and forget his problems for an hour.

He dropped the envelope into the dish.

That settled, he strolled over to the refrigerator, one of those old models that still had a latch. If he hadn't heard the compressor running, he would have thought it ran on ice. On it was a stack of papers, several staples at the top. John flipped through. Clean screenings every three months for the past year and a half.

“You’re quite thorough “--John checked the name at the top of the first sheet--”Sherlock.”

That name was definitely fake.

Sherlock flipped off the light in the bathroom. “No one wants to spend a grand on a whore with herpes.”

John blanched but eventually nodded. Sherlock did have a point, even if the phrasing made John uncomfortable. And reminded him what he was really doing here. It was all right, though, wasn't it? Surely it was clear from John's voicemail that he hadn't planned to go through with it. Sherlock sought him out. He might actually be interested.

John shook his head. Of all the ridiculous--

“Aren't you going to join me?”

“Oh, right. Of course.” John took an aborted step, shifting at the last moment to reattach the papers to the fridge. He tried to be nonchalant and quick, but failed at both, nearly tripping over the frayed end of the rug.

Finally, his knee planted on the duvet by Sherlock's feet, who was lounged like the subject of a renaissance painting, pants already abandoned.

“Shoes,” Sherlock warned.

John stood, shucked his shoes, and kicked them away, the rugs doing little to muffle the clatter as they tumbled. He cringed but crawled onto the bed anyway, propping himself on his elbow in a stiffer reflection of Sherlock's own pose, feeling all the more naked for being fully dressed.

Sherlock made quick work of the three buttons on John's cardigan. “You're wearing a lot of clothes for a man going to see a prostitute.”

“I always dress like this.”

Sherlock flicked open the collar of John's button-down. “It wasn't a complaint.” Once the second and third buttons were undone, he reached into John's shirt, running his fingertips over John's collarbone. “Do you know what you want?”

John shrugged. “I hadn't thought that far.”

Sherlock pushed John to his back, looming as he finished with John's shirts. “I’ll decide then.”

Even through the jitters, the nearness of another person had John tingling with anticipation, his fingers itching to touch, though he wasn't sure what was allowed. Was it like a strip club? Was he expected to keep his hands off while Sherlock touched him?

If that was the expectation, he didn't know how he would survive it. The warmth coming off Sherlock's naked skin radiated like sunlight, drawing John nearer. And the smell of him, both from his body and embedded in his bed, like mint and smoke and Moroccan spices. Hell, even the feel of Sherlock's breath was-- “Do you kiss?”

Sherlock didn't speak, but his answer was definitive. He swooped down and pressed his lips to John's, flicking his tongue across John's startled mouth.

It didn't take long for John to react, surging into the touch and burying his hands in Sherlock's hair. Silken. He could imagine someone knitting a jumper out of it. He almost laughed at the thought as his palm stroked back from Sherlock's ear, fingers tangling at the nape. It would almost certainly be his favorite jumper if it felt like this. He wouldn't even wear a vest underneath.

Sherlock immediately went back to work on John's buttons as John explored his hair, relishing the way the tangle of his fingers released the fresh, citrus scent of shampoo. Amazingly his mouth lost no coordination as his fingers deftly flicked open the last buttons of John's shirt, the fly of his jeans, even as they slid down to cup John through his pants.

John gasped, his cock, slow to react up to this point, perking up.

“You’re an excellent kisser,” Sherlock mumbled against John's mouth.

John chuckled, fingers following the line of Sherlock's shoulder blade. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Sherlock stroked the tip of his nose against John's, teasing him with the promise of another kiss as his hand teased John's bollocks through his pants. “No.”

John hummed, letting his legs fall apart and his eyelids fall closed. Finally, he felt a little relaxed. “I bet you say _that_ to all the boys.”

At the sound of Sherlock's huff, John's eyes flew open.

“I’m in high demand, John.”

“What?” John pushed to his elbows, but Sherlock shoved him back down to his back, holding him there.

“I could do this forty hours a week and still be turning people away, but I don't. Do you understand?”

“No, not really.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be obtuse. Think.”

The sudden change of mood gave John whiplash, but still he found himself wanting to find the right answer. He pursed his lips in thought. “You turn down most offers.”

“Yes. You're the first new client I’ve taken on in months. Keep going.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Why would you pick me?”

Sherlock's mouth twisted as he glanced away. “I only take interesting cases.”

John scoffed. “You don't know anything about me.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I know you're a former army doctor, but you didn't leave the service by choice. You were invalided out when the tremor in your left hand left you unable to perform surgery. I know you found civilian life in London unbearable, so you moved to New York for a fresh start. You have a private GP practice. Quite successful since you're not accepting new patients. In fact, you’re overloaded with them. In fact, I’d bet you came straight here after Saturday urgent care that was supposed to end at noon. You should really hire a second doctor for your practice, but you don't. You say you can't afford it, but the truth is you prefer to be that busy, despite the fact that it makes it impossible to maintain friendships or romantic relationships. You like the urgency of it. You like feeling needed. How am I doing so far?”

John boggled. “How could you possibly--”

“Spot on, then. Good. But it’s not enough, is it? Of course, there’s the fact that you haven't had sex in”--Sherlock squinted--”over a year, and dating apps and clubs rob you of your confidence.”

John tried not to feel insulted.

“But that’s not what leaves you unsatisfied. You miss the army. You miss danger.” He jumped up, straddling John's thighs, face looming low over John's. “You didn't call me for sex. You called me for the risk.”

John stuttered out a string of vowels, trying to come up with a more reasonable explanation, but he couldn't deny the thrill running down his spine. He couldn't deny the way Sherlock's words made his heart race. As much as he’d tried, he couldn't deny that it was a thrill just to be here.

“Admit it. You felt more alive on the way over here than you’ve felt since coming to this city.”

“God, you're incredible.” John surged up, yanking Sherlock's mouth down to his, but he didn't stop there. He kept going until Sherlock fell to his back, head at the foot of the bed. He ripped his shirts from his shoulders, his vest over his head.

Sherlock shoved at John's trousers and pants until John could shimmy out and kick them aside. “There you are.”

John heard the words, but the meaning passed him by as all he could think was _skin_. Chests and stomachs pressed against each other. Cocks skimming. Thighs wrapped around thighs and calves nudging arse. It was so much skin, and John wanted to revel in it, rub his hands all over Sherlock, kiss every bit. Starting with the spot just behind his ear.

“You feel amazing,” John growled against that spot, tasted it, nibbled it as his hips rocked. His cock had gone from somewhat turgid to rock hard so fast that it made him lightheaded. It made him ache. He knew that this uncoordinated rocking and thrusting against each other's groins would grow unpleasant quickly. They needed lube if nothing else. But God, in the moment it felt so good that he thought the sky might open to an angelic choir. He could only groan and thrust and hold on for dear life and try, mostly unsuccessfully, not to sink his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder.

Jesus, he even tasted good.

John only surfaced somewhat when he felt something cold and hard tumble over his shoulder. “What was that?”

Sherlock nudged John up until a few inches opened up between them. He grabbed the fallen object from the bed and wiggled it before John's eyes. “Lube.”

He squeezed some onto his hand and reached between them. Just the sight, just the anticipation made John shiver, but then he felt knuckles slim against the underside of his cock. He looked down to see Sherlock slicking himself, glans disappearing and reappearing between long fingers.

“Oh God,” John groaned, riveted. And then Sherlock moved on to John's cock. “ _Oh fuck!_ ”

John's eyelids slammed shut. His hips stuttered. So warm and slick and _talented_. God, those hands. Those fingers.

Sherlock's fingers wrapped over the top of John's cock, their undersides sliding together, and John was sure he combusted. He was surprised not to be ash fluttering over Sherlock's body, but even if he had, what a way to go.

“You’re so big. I can barely get my hand around us.” Sherlock must have seen a flash of incredulity because he raised an eyebrow and nodded sharply. “Look.”

John did. “Oh fuck.”

Even Sherlock's long fingers barely made it past the top of John's cock, which would have been enough to send John over the edge, but then he swept his index finger over John's slit and tucked it in between their cocks, and John broke. He thrust hard and fast, the picture of Sherlock's hand around them both rocketing him to orgasm, which burned through him like a firework. One that was loud and bombastic and over too quickly.

He collapsed to his elbows, muscle shaking with the effort not to crush Sherlock as his mouth smeared over Sherlock's clavicle, soaking in that last bit before he had to leave.

He didn't want to leave.

“Do you want to watch me?” Sherlock purred in John's ear.

“God yeah.” John bounced up to his knees only to have Sherlock push him over to his back and then sit astride his thighs. His eyes locked on John's like a dare, and John refused to back down, staring back as Sherlock's hand moved below. He dragged his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, watching Sherlock's expression grow darker, watching his mouth fall open, his breath come in pants through it. John wouldn't have expected it, but this was far sexier than staring at his hand work over his cock. It made him want to get involved. It made him want to affect the look on Sherlock's face.

John pushed himself up on one elbow and grabbed Sherlock's hip with his free arm. “Do it. Come for me.”

Sherlock's eyes went wide, a small noise escaping his throat, and then John felt warmth against his stomach, watched Sherlock struggle to keep his eyes open and locked to John's. He watched as Sherlock finally gave up, propped himself on John's chest and shuddered through it, face scrunched and pressed to his chest.

After a moment, he sat upright, took a deep breath, and drew a long, slow track down John’s messy torso. “Next time, I want you to fuck me with that big cock.”

“God, that sounds lovely.” John sighed. “But I can't afford a next time.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock dismounted and grabbed a pouch of wipes from his bedside table. “By my estimation, you can sustainably afford to see me once every two weeks.”

John scoffed as Sherlock wiped his stomach. “How do you figure that?”

“You have an overflowing patient load and you still live like you're trying to afford London on an army pension.”

“All right.” John sat up, something like anger or panic tickling beneath his ribs. “I get how you guessed about Afghanistan--”

“I never guess.”

John held up one finger. “But how could you possibly know that much about my practice.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I googled your mobile number.”

John waited a moment for further explanation before throwing up his hands. “Of course, it’s perfectly simple.”

“It’s listed on the website for your practice. From there it was simple to deduce your business. When was the last time you gave yourself a raise? You’ve been paying yourself the same since you started, haven't you?”

“How could you poss--” John caught himself before finishing the question, but Sherlock smirked with triumph anyway.

He leaned over and kissed John, slow and sultry. “If I’m wrong, the next visit is on me.”

John kissed Sherlock, giving his lower lip a nibble. “Awfully confident, aren't you?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Or maybe I just want that thick cock to fuck me.”

John chuckled. “I suppose we’ll find out in two weeks.”

Sherlock shook his head, curls tickling John's forehead. “We haven't completed the terms yet.”

“Terms?”

“Of our bet.”

“Oh.” John smiled slow and relaxed, tucking a stray hair behind Sherlock's ear. “What do you want if you're right?”

“Hire a nurse practitioner.”

John winced, blinked. He didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't that.

Sherlock tugged him close again. “Do we have a deal?”

How could John resist? “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Since I have little doubt I'll get comments about this, yes, I'm aware they didn't use condoms. Frottage is a low-risk activity, and given John's dry spell and Sherlock's rigorous testing, I decided they would find it acceptable. (Admittedly, I'm a bit salty/paranoid about it.)


End file.
